Well, I’ve done it. Given birth. Again. That’s baby no. 7 safely delivered.
Pepper, Tales of a Family Dog is now scampering around Amazon and available on the Kindle.
Given birth? For a man, it’s an exact analogy. You can’t back out, you know it’s going to hurt at times. And that final feeling of joy and relief…
Small wonder that someone said, ‘Writing a book is the closest a man can get to giving birth.’
Hmmm… A quick check. Google doesn’t attribute that quote to anyone. I think I might steal it and claim my place in posterity. I might even be a question in a pub quiz.
Anyway, Pepper’s done. I still miss her – I dropped a spoonful of Spag Bol on the kitchen floor this morning and turned round: then realised I’d have to pick it up myself – but at least she has her place in history.
At which point you might think it’s time to relax. Put the old feet up, especially as footie is back on TV…
Not a bit of it, as I patiently explained to my youngest son.
“You’re done now, Dad. Time for a break.”
“Because writing a book is one thing. Publicising it is quite another. And it’s more than half the battle.”
Sadly, it’s true. JK Rowling might be able to write ‘The End’ in the happy knowledge that she can leave it to the publisher’s publicity department.
“Because I’m the publicity department,” I told Alex.
“So you’ve written the book and now you have to sell it?”
“Yes.” And like all indie authors, my publicity department will do anything…
…At which point, let me introduce you to my good friend, Phyllis.
Astonishingly – for one of my friends – I’ve actually met her.
Only once, but in these days of social distancing that’s enough. After all – depending on which sci-fi writer you believe – not that many more years and we’ll live our lives in one room, chained to a screen, sleeping in a pod and fed by the Just Eat drone tapping on the window.
Phyllis is a fine woman. A pillar of the community. The current crisis has swiftly divided us into good ’uns and bad ’uns and Phyllis is firmly on the side of the angels. She also has lots of friends. She may, for example, be a member of the WI. Women’s Institute, if you haven’t seen Calendar Girls.
Phyllis lives just north of Carlisle. The town’s bound to have a WI. Supposing they wanted me to talk about my books? Let’s imagine a hypothetical conversation…
We wondered if you’d come and talk to the Women’s Institute
Yes, yes, of course. When?
Next Tuesday morning?
No problem. I’ll leave now.
There’s just one thing…
Well, we think it might help to sell your books if you danced naked before you started speaking
At which point a writer with a new book out won’t even hesitate. Once the book’s published you become – I’m sorry, there’s no delicate way to put this – a cheap tart who’ll do anything for a sale.
Dance naked? It’s a simple, seven word answer.
No problem at all. Twist or tango?
I relayed this story to my loving and ever-supportive wife. The mental image was clearly too much for her. “Well,” she said. “At least they’d find a use for the sick bags now no-one’s flying any more.”
I’m about to deliver a witty response to this stinging barb when my phone starts ringing. I rush to answer it.
After all, it could be the Carlisle WI.
Now where did I put that spray-tan…